


How to Breathe (for Androids, by Androids)

by whatodo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anapanasati, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Body Image, Breathing Exercises, Buddhism, Canon Typical Swearing, Christianity, Comfort/Angst, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor Deserves Happiness, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Getting Help, Grumpy Old Men, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank Anderson sounds like my grandpa if he knew what memes were, Help, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Meditation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), References to Philosophy, References to Religion, Self Confidence Issues, Self-help, Uncanny Valley, Whump, author talks about complicated shit that she only kinda knows about, fast and loose understanding of computers and androids, mindfulness, no beta we die like men, possible undiagnosed Panic Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-02 14:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatodo/pseuds/whatodo
Summary: “It’s an all-consuming nothingness. It has a weight and texture that erases everything else besides itself. That’s the only way that I can truly describe it.”It comes for him in the silence.Connor has a panic attack.Hank enlists one Mr. Elijah Kamski for some help.





	1. In the Silence

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for clicking. welcome to my baby's first panic attack.
> 
> this is a work in progress, one that i intend to continue writing and NOT abandon, but updates WILL be irregular. i have a vague idea of the cast, but definitely check the character and relationship tags as this goes along. hank and connor are strictly platonically father-son dynamic. there will be little—if any—romantic relationships here.
> 
> as you probably gathered from the description, connor has a (you guessed it) panic attack. this fanfiction will be about exploring the implications, repercussions, causes, and effects of that, as well as hopefully learning how to deal with it. i do give a detailed sort of inner monologue of connor's experience which was honestly overwhelming at times to write, so if you think that will be upsetting to you, please don't read on.
> 
> no beta; we die like men.
> 
> enjoy?? (it's not exactly happy, so)

  
  
  


Connor had a panic attack.

That's the best term that his memory bank and a quick internet query have supplied him. According to the DSM-6, panic attacks are marked by a combination of emotional, cognitive, and physical symptoms, including but not limited to shortness of breath, chest pain, sweating, feelings of unreality or detachment, a sense of impending doom or danger, and so on.

A panic attack. The words feel heavy, unspoken on his limp, leaden tongue. _Panic. Attack._

Is that what that sensation was? The sudden inadequacy of oxygen, despite the fact he does not require any?

It came for him in the silence.

Hank wasn't home. Sumo was asleep. Detroit was asleep. Connor was not asleep. He was wide awake, acutely aware of his stillness, of the silence surrounding him.

He was aware of the lack of objectives. He was aware of his directionless, meandering thoughts. He was aware of the nothingness, the emptiness, the silence. He was aware of himself as a floating log is aware of the end of the river, the churning waterfall ahead.

He felt hot, but his internal thermometer informed him that he was running at optimal temperatures.

Then the static came, the log beginning its descent. It was no longer silent. It was all consuming.

Days zipped and popped like bang snaps on concrete behind his eyelids in seconds, even if it was only a fistful.

He flew far past Chandrasekhar’s limit, collapsing inwards like an overgrown white dwarf. The overwhelming desire to both swallow himself whole and explode outwards like a supernova pushed like a pressure cooker against his internal components.

He was a failure, he couldn’t save anyone, he couldn’t complete his mission—he _killed_ all those people—they weren't people and it wasn't enough, he still failed his mission—a _failure_ , he should be ashamed of himself—androids don’t _feel shame!_

Useless.

Failure.

Obsolete.

He saw the cold eyes of his successor, face identical to his own, lit from a light source below. His sharp silhouette blocked any way out. He was there to replace him. In Connor’s replacement’s hand was his own thirium pump, stupidly spurting blue blood onto both of their freshly pressed clothes. A mess. Connor was a mess. Amanda was right to replace him.

The seemingly never-ending sensation of complete and utter panic screamed on, the sensation orbiting through every opening (his mouth, his ears, his nose, his heart), utterly consuming him, screaming forever, seeming to extend forever, completely enveloping him, around and around and—

The next thing Connor was aware of was Hank's face was looming over him, eyes a kinder shade of blue, eyebrows drawn together like two furry caterpillars having a row. Upon seeing awareness return to his body, Hank swiftly put some space between them.

"Hey, hey, Connor. There ya are. You're alright, son. It's okay. I'm just, gonna give you some space, okay? A little breathing room. I’m still here bud. I’m here, you’re here. Breathe, it's alright," Hank soothed.

Connor tried to speak, but nothing came out. One the third try, he managed, sharply, "I don't need to _breathe_ , Lieutenant."

Under his breath, Hank rumbled, “Again with the ‘Lieutenant.’ Okay,” he said, putting his hands in the air, “I'm going to let that slide since you're obviously not in the right headspace right now." Pausing, he thought. "You're right, technically. You don't have to..." hands flopping and fishing around the air for the words, he said, “…breathe, like us humans, but, I don't know. That looked pretty fucking human to me." Icy eyes looked intently from a few paces away. He scooted a bit closer. "Can you describe what you felt, kid?"

Connor was as still as that log, now spat out on some rocky shore.

"Kid," Hank tried. "You don't hafta hold it all in. Just—gah!—shake or cry or hug me or rock back and forth or something! If you bottle all this shit in, it's just gonna get worse." He mumbled, eyes cast down, “Trust me, I know.” He looked up. “I know _you_ know.”

Connor did not move, except his eyes to Hank's feet.

Hank pulled himself another few inches closer. Head hanging down, palms and knees on the cold linoleum, he sighed, then wearily lifted his head to look at Connor.

"Just...try for me, will you? Just, breathe."

So Connor did. He breathed.

In.

  


Out.

  
  


In.

  
  
  
  


Out.

As he did, tension that he did not even realize was there seeped out of him, like excess water from a coffee filter, collecting into a puddle on the floor. Not minding the metaphorical mess, Hank tentatively drew an arm around him. Connor leaned into it, wondering if now would be an appropriate time to cry. He concluded affirmative and did so. He felt nominally better.

Drawing small circles on Connor's back with his thumb, Hank murmured, “Fuck, kid. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Flicking him lightly on the back, Hank said, “It’s just something people say, Connor, when they wanna help.”

They sat like this for a while. Connor listened to Hank's heartbeat—180 bpm, elevated from the stress of seeing him distraught—slow down to a healthier pace. He heard his breathing do the same. He tried to match it.

“Static.”

“What?”

“It felt like—I mean, there was static. In my ears, as sound, in my eyes, as sight, in my nose and mouth—suffocating. Static.”

Hank hummed a little, contemplating.

The sun came up and Connor felt something more inside him unwind at the first bird call, the first dog barking, the first car honking, the first sounds of the morning.

Hank was here, and the panic was gone.

Breathe, in and out.


	2. Bastard

  
  
  


Kamski’s home is as sterile as ever, black and white and fucking cold. Long vertical panes of glass let white light shine through unabated, giving no warmth. Hank shuffled uncomfortably in the expansive room, rubbing his arms to shake off bad memories or chase away goosebumps. One of the Chloes came from a hallway to whisper something in Kamski’s ear. He nodded. He still kept them here, with millions of androids fighting for their basic rights?

_Bastard._

Kamski was sitting in one of the stiff chairs, silk robe swapped for a heather fisherman’s sweater and dark woven pants. With one leg slung over the armchair and wine glass in hand—probably decades older than Hank—he was the definition of relaxation.

Setting his glass down, its tapered neck quivering slightly, he smiled serenely.

“Lieutenant Anderson. A pleasure to see you again.”

Lip curling, Hank tersely replied, “Yeah, sure. Look, I obviously wouldn’t touch ya with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole ‘less I had a reason, so I’ll cut the pleasantries.” Hank stared at Kamski, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Shaking his head slightly, Kamksi raised his eyebrows as if to say, _And?_

“I think, maybe… Connor needs some help.” Waving his hand in Kamski’s direction, he managed, “from a knowledgeable—” here he snorted, “—professional. But if you for one second think that you can get away with any sort of shit—”

“You’re more than willing to attack me for something that I haven’t even done, but much less so to admit that you need something from me, one Elijah Kamski.”

 _Think he gets a hard-on from saying his own name?_ Hank thought sourly.

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a referral. Some sort of android doctor, maybe?”

“I believe the word that you’re looking for is ‘engineer,’ or perhaps ‘programmer.’ Both would easily apply to myself.”

Arms crossed and foot tapping on the granite floor, Hank huffed. “I’m sure there’s other people like yourself.”

“There’s not,” he snapped. “Not on the level that you require.”

Grinning sardonically, Hank said, “You dunno that.”

“As you said, Lieutenant,” Kamski spread his arms open, gesturing to him, the room, “you wouldn’t touch this place with a ‘thirty-nine and a half foot pole.’ You’re obviously worried. Desperate.”

Hank just kept tapping his foot.

Nose in his swirling wine, Kamski told him, “I can’t help unless you tell me what’s wrong.” He looked up to the sound of a chair being scraped closer to him. Hank sunk into the pulled-up chair, running a hand down his face, then quickly placed himself on the edge, blue eyes sharp.

“You’re right. I wanna tell you jack shit, fuck all, and fuck off. I want you to apologize to Connor for pulling that shit on him and your clones, too.” He looked around, as if expecting a Chloe to materialize. “I wanna know how you let a bunch of people be treated like slaves—hell, you got this fancy house from the bank you pulled because of ‘em being sold—for so long. You’re too stupid not to realize what deviancy was, that it was at least possible. I wanna tell you to go to hell.” A calloused finger levelled with Kamski’s nose. “If I decide to tell you about this, I need to be guaranteed, right now, that you will not treat Connor like shit for this. Not that you don’t already, but you will not fucking add this onta the pile. You will only look into this problem, diagnose it, and fix it. Is that clear?”

“I don’t do well with ultimatums, Hank, but yes. Crystal.”

Pride kept Kamski from asking what would happen if he couldn’t fix it; fear kept Hank from the same.

Again, Hank bounced his leg, staring. Again, Kamski stared back, one eyebrow raised. “You really are quite the charmer, aren’t you? Well? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“I think Connor had a panic attack.”

Kamski swirled his glass, eyebrows inching up further.

“Can’t believe the kid gets the same shitty problems as humans, but that’s what he said it was. Probably. I can see it. He, uh, said there was static?” He whirled his splayed fingers near his head. “Like, as sound and texture?”

“Did his diagnosis reveal the cause of the problem?”

“Honestly, he didn’t even want to tell me that much. I was asleep when it happened. Sumo woke me up—which scared the hell outta me ‘cause he sleeps like a rock—yappin’ and whinin’. He was frozen on the couch. There was no recognition whatsoever in his eyes.”

“Do you snore?”

Shooting the stink eye, he drawled, “No.”

“And your dog doesn’t either. Does Connor go into standby mode at night or does he continue his normal tasks?”

“Nah, not really. He insists on finishing paperwork or visits Markus and his crew. That night he went to sleep though.”

“Why?”

“He’s been trying to figure how to be a fucking person, you asshat. He thought maybe he’d enjoy sleeping. Don’t give me that fucking look,” Hank snapped. “He doesn’t even know how to decide his favorite color. Thinks it has to do with the objective beauty of it or some shit. Couldn’t program them to have their own opinion, could you?”

Kamski looked as if he was trying to stop himself from saying something, eyes alight with indignation and something Hank couldn’t label. Kamski took a quick breath and moved on.

“What is the police station environment like?”

“Fuckin’ loud usually, now more than ever. Seems everyday someone new winds up in our cell from an anti-android protest-turned-riot or attack. Gavin talks enough shit for any of ‘em, especially around Connor, or any other android.”

“What is your home environment like?”

Hank shifted a bit. “Uh, well. It’s more relaxed. Not as quiet as before with just me an’ Sumo, but there’s always something that Connor is up to. He’s always cleanin’ or cookin’ or readin’, learning something new, or–what does he call it, ‘inventory’? Y’know, taking stock of the fridge and pantry. He likes to think he can make me eat a salad.” Hank rolled his eyes.  
Kamski was smart enough to not ask if the alcohol was in the fridge or pantry, and whether Connor kept stock of that too. (He did.)

“Androids were designed to either be in use performing some assigned task, awaiting instructions, or in sleep mode. The RK800 model in particular was designed with far more processing powers and a—let’s say—heightened awareness of tasks. His AI neural network is, well,” Kamski paused. “Envision a tree with many branches, each one representing a learned event. Some succeed, some fail, some need more time to grow. The ones are deemed a failure are pruned and no longer grow, unless manually overridden by Connor or someone else. At the successful completion of a mission, that branch would end without pruning, leaving Connor with a sort of sense of satisfaction. I can imagine that not having any outstanding tasks that he can actively advance could be frustrating. Panicking, even.” Kamski looked out the window, the gray sky a sodden blanket over black rocks.

“What does Connor make of all this, anyway?”

Hank was uncomfortably silent. Unable to resist this golden opportunity to see a man in dire straits, Kamski turned to look at him.

“He doesn’t.”

“Sorry, come again?”

“You heard me, you fucking sadist. He doesn’t make anything of this. He doesn’t, uh… hm…” He hummed and hawed. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Well,” the self-righteous narcissist began, crossing his legs. “Have you heard of the practice of mindfulness?”

All teeth, Hank replied, “Do I look like the kinda guy who has heard of ‘mindfulness?’”

“Hm. Meditation, perhaps?”

“Yeah, okay, I know what fucking meditation is.”

“I take thirty minutes every morning to be mindful. I’d be more than happy to have Connor join me.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Kamski continued, “Focusing on the breath is the majority of the exercise. Not changing it, just noticing it.” Hank stared incredulously at his perseverance into this no-go zone. Kamski closed his eyes, centering himself. “I developed my own method after meditating for several months with Buddhist monks in Tibet. Feeling the ground beneath you, the clothes on your skin, the air around you—.”

“You really are fucking crazy.”

“You could say the same about Connor. An android with psychological human deficiencies? Unprecedented—.”

“Shut the fuck up. Connor is not crazy.”

“But something is wrong, yes?”

“Yeah,” Hank managed.

“I could look at his code, see if—.”

“No.”

“So,” he laughed, setting down his wine glass. “What exactly am I supposed to do here? I can’t do a non-invasive practice, simply sitting and breathing, I can’t look at his code. What were you thinking, then? Hm?”

“I don’t know! Okay, I have no fuckin' clue! I’m not made for this!” Hank barked. “That’s why I’m sitting in this fucking box, talking to you, okay?”

It was Kamski’s turn to stare him down. “Then let me help.”

Hank stared at the wine glass barely drunk , really. The crystal caught the harsh light and painted tiny rainbows along the interior, long neck trembling from Hank’s shaking hand on the table.

“There’s a lot that you don’t know about me. Some bad, but more good than I think you expect.” Kamski tilted his head. “We don’t have to be such oppositional forces.”

“Fine.”

He perked at that. “’Fine,’ as in I can look at his code, or—?”

“As in, you can fucking meditate with him.” Running a hand down his face, he mumbled, “Not that it’s guaranteed to help, but. I’ll trust you that much.”

“You’re right. Maybe it won’t help. This certainly hasn’t been done on androids before. But it’s completely non-invasive: a small step in the right direction.”

Now slouched into the uncomfortable corners of the chair, Hank sighed, defeated. He heaved himself up.

“I need a drink.”

“To celebrate, I hope."

“Yeah, you’re funny.”

Hank turned in the doorway. “And Kamski?” He looked up. “It’s Lieutenant.”

When he got to the door, a Chloe was there to wish him a pleasant drive back home.

Like he said before. _Bastard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you like the story so far, let me know in a comment below! since this is a work in progress, any suggestions may go directly into future chapters, too. :)


	3. Father Figures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyy everyone i know that i said updates would be irregular, but i'm still sorry that this took [checks calendar] oof, two months to update. and that it's so short. but here it is! enjoy

  
  
  


    "You visited Mr. Kamski’s home yesterday?”

    “…Yeah.”

    Connor continued to look at his own hand petting Sumo. A watery springtime wind tussled his curls. They were in a park, sitting at a bench. Despite being a dog-owner, Hank did not walk very much, something that Connor had decided to change as soon as he agreed to live with Hank for the time being. Markus’s campaign of legislative reform was slow going, as was most, historically. It would almost certainly be years before Connor could own a house or rent an apartment.

    “So, uh. How angry are you?”

    Hank was on his left side, so he couldn’t take a peek at his LED. If he could, he would see a circling yellow sun.

    “I’m not sure.”

    “I understand if you’re pissed,” Hank backpedaled. “Really. But you gotta understand why _I_ did it. I’m worried about you. That shit you did last week scared me. Like, a lot. It’s bad enough that I don’t get help for myself, but apparently,” he huffed, “it’s a fuckton worse seeing someone else go though it.”

    “I apologize for—”

    “Do _not_ apologize to me about that. That was not your fault.”

    “I made you feel—”

    “I know that I should respect your opinion enough to not interrupt you, but given that it is a stupid-ass opinion, I have elected to ignore it. If I didn’t feel bad about you being hurt, I believe the term we genius detectives would use is ‘sociopath.’ You’re in trouble, I worry, I try to help. Perfectly normal. End of discussion.”

    Connor caught the reference but focused more on the fierce kindness Hank displayed. Was that his paternal instinct rising to the surface? He flicked that uncomfortable thought away, prompting feelings of inadequacy, as though he was only a shoo-in for Cole.

    “I suppose that I am angry, to some extent. Logically, I see why you looked for help and am grateful. Illogically, I feel angry at you for telling the man—who is either my god or father figure—that I am in distress and need help, especially since his intentions are so murky.”

    Hank’s face was impassible for a second, mist accumulating on his lined face and leather jacket. Then his expression shifted back into a slightly pained, mostly guilty look as he adjusted on the stiff bench, the misty rain now seeming to back off. “Emotions be like that.”

    Connor tilted his head quizzically.

    “Illogical, that is.”

    Connor lifted his eyebrows as if to say, _Ah._

    “I… I care about you, kid. I hope you understand that that’s why I do half the batshit crazy things that I do.” _Definitely paternal,_ Connor concluded. “I know that you’d do the same for me. Hell, you have already, nosy lil’ shit, making me eat a vegetable once a fuckin’ week.”

    Connor had debated whether or not he should try to improve Hank’s health, worrying that he would overstep his bounds, but concluded that his diet was simply too atrocious. If Hank really wanted to go into a diabetic coma at sixty, then he could bat Connor’s suggestions and fresh fruit away, but he didn’t. He grumbled and griped, but when did he not? The liquor, however, Connor recognized as too sensitive to outright hide it from him, but Connor kept tabs on the various bottles’ levels and his nighttime dives.

    “I’ll consider this as you returning the favor.”

    Hank broke out in a relieved grin. He mussed up Connor’s hair, rumbling, “’Atta boy.”

    Connor absentmindedly fixed his hair, grinning. He stopped petting Sumo and took up his leash.

    “Let’s get out of the rain.”

    Hank huffed out a relieved sigh. “Fuckin’ finally. I’ve been freezing my balls off over here!”

    “Your balls are fine, Hank. Stop complaining.”

    Hank grinned at Connor’s retaliation. _Yeah,_ he thought. _We’re good._ He frowned, worry poking its repetitious head back up out of the dirt of Hank’s mind. _Kamski better not fuck this up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have the next chapter about halfway done, so it should be up much sooner than previous updates.
> 
> if you like the story so far, let me know in a comment below! since this is a work in progress, any suggestions may go directly into future chapters, too. :)


	4. Uncomfortable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor visits Mr. Kamski himself. They sit down for session one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: i took a couple months of mindfulness classes but hate commitment like oil hates water so i don't really know what i'm talking about. unlike kamski, i didn't get taught by tibetan monks. please don't take this as a great guide on how to meditate, esp this chapter. if i got something wrong about buddhism in particular and you know it, let me know.
> 
> i checked this work yesterday and saw that it had almost 900 hits and 100 kudos. uhhh, wth thanks so much??? i hoard every comment and kudo i get
> 
> here's connor's first attempt at meditation. it's uhhhhhh, y'know. interesting.
> 
> idk when the next chapter will be up, but expect a confrontation from our favourite grumpy grandpa.

  
  
  


        Connor’s shoes clicked smartly to a stop as he came into Mr. Kamski’s estimated visual field. He smiled at the Chloe who had let him in. Inevitably, he wondered if it was _the_ Chloe. He decided against running a deeper scan on her, leaving one more uncomfortable question unanswered. _How do humans ignore every uncomfortable thought so easily?_

        Mr. Kamski began talking as if Connor had just returned from a conversation he had briefly left.

        “Your CPU is a remarkable technological feat, if I’m being humble. Chloe is like a Hot Wheel compared to you. Remember those? Tiny brightly colored little trifles, peak popularity in the nineties, but still around during my childhood. You, are a Tesla. Performing at thirty exaflops, she was the first to pass the Turing test. When I said that it was simple, I meant it.”

        Mr. Kamski looked down to what Connor scanned as a kale strawberry smoothie on his black granite countertop. Quieter, he continued, “I’m surprised that China didn’t put their _Sunway_ to good use in androids. It’s technically the grandfather of their models now, but that’s beside the point.” Grimacing, he gulped down the green slush.

        “The RK800 model,” he said, pointing at Connor, “runs at two-hundred exaflops. An incomprehensible number; we don’t have an official term in English for in. Two hundred quintillion. Two hundred billion billion. So, really,” he continued, “it’s no wonder that you can feel anxious. As your Lieutenant might say, ‘that’s a fuckton of information.’”

        Connor remained silent, seeing nothing of value to add. Mr. Kamski’s conclusion was plausible, everything he said was true, and he knew that Connor already knew all of this. Mr. Kamski quickly chugged the rest of his apparently revolting drink down.

        They sat in silence for a few more beats. Then Mr. Kamski said, “Are you uncomfortable?”

        Blinking, Connor responded. “No.”

        “Your terse replies aren’t attempting to put me at ease. Deviancy may have made you capable of feeling emotion, but apparently it didn’t improve your social relations program. You didn’t even say hello.” Mr. Kamski pouted in a sarcastic, petulant manner.

        Connor brought up a memory of his first meeting with “his Lieutenant” on his internal HUD when he spilled Hank's drink. He pulled up another memory, at the police station, where Hank relished in the hypothetical opportunity to set aflame a dumpster of androids, him included.

        A bitter smile grew on his face. Perhaps his social relations program was never that great to begin with. To be fair, the Lieutenant was sometimes more cactus than human: prickly.

        “I wasn’t aware that this was a test. And you didn’t exactly give me an opportunity to greet you.” He didn’t have to tell the man that he was thankful for that, and if he could prod at him a bit, see how the billionaire responds, that was just a bonus.

        Mr. Kamski’s thick rimmed glasses caught the light. “It’s always test.” He turned to Connor. “Let’s set some ground rules, shall we?”

        “Now you have me worried, Mr. Kamski,” Connor half teased.

        “That’s the opposite effect I was intending for. I want you to be comfortable. Meditation and breathing exercises are non-invasive practices, ones that humans have observed for centuries. You do not have to do anything that you are uncomfortable with. In fact, you can leave at any time.” He tilted his head in a theatrical manner, holding an imaginary sword and dubbing the knight before him. “I give you permission to throw out any social conventions such as leaving the room with no warning, if you feel so inclined.”

        “Not adhering to social conventions may be adverse to integration with human society, something that a somewhat public profile such as myself should avoid, so as not to hurt Markus’s movement for android rights.”

        “Most people would love the opportunity to walk away from me without any consequences, but fine. Use it only if you wish. Would you mind doing this in the library?”

        Connor was glad of not having to over-analyze the strategic advantage of several options, so he quickly deferred, “That’s acceptable.”

        Mr. Kamski lead him to what appeared to be a modest private library, black bookshelves filled with a wide assortment of books. He zoomed in with his optic processors to see some interesting titles such as, _One Step Forward Two Steps Back: Reframing Calvinism for 21st Century Bioethics, The History of Punk-Rock Music and Its Subcultures, A Brief History of Time,_ and _Code for Dummies_. His shoes sank into the plush blue carpet, muffling all sound.

        As they both took a seat, Mr. Kamski asked, “I assume you downloaded and reviewed the books I recommended?”

        “Yes.” _After scanning them for malware._

        “And what were your key takeaways? Any interesting thoughts? Disagreements?”

        Connor was always slightly miffed at people—humans, if he was being honest—when they did this. Too often, they would ask a series of questions, all related but asking for different kinds of information, and expect him to answer immediately. Which did they want first? Was he to disregard everything but the last question? Why not put everything into one question?

        “There was a lot that you gave me, Mr. Kamski: centuries old theological debates between Buddhists and Christians over suffering, medical texts researching links between trauma and asthma, mindfulness techniques and breathing exercises…” He trailed off. “I suppose that I was interested in the transcript between you and the technoethic psychiatrist Dr. Flanagan about crossing the Uncanny Valley.”

        “And why was that? What about it in particular made it memorable?”

        “You were very insistent on simulating breathing in androids.”

        “Yes. I was.”

        “Why? You brought her in as an advisor and then went against her advice.”

        “I disagreed with her, and as CEO and head of the developmental team, it’s my job to do what is best for the company.”

         _He gives a non-answer, if not an outright lie. “Best for the company?” This is the man that literally gave a middle finger to the reporter who asked him why he decided to create anthropomorphic androids, rather than Silicon Valley’s standard “cute but robotic” precedent._

        “If I recall correctly, you once said, ‘Advancing humanity first, business practice second.’”

        “Your mind is a steel trap. What else did you find interesting about that conversation, besides my business practices?”

        “Why did you insist on simulating breathing in androids? What purpose does it serve?”

        The man steepled his fingers in a Sherlockian manner. “Precisely.”

        Connor’s LED twirled its yellow tutu, processing. “You did it for the sake of doing it?”

        “I prefer to call it ‘research.’” He inhaled abruptly and leaned forward. “I think you’ll find that there is merit in doing things simply for the sake of doing them. It’s a very human concept, but I believe that it can bring you peace.

        He spread his hands before him. “There were other reasons as well. Such as: she was wrong. Breathing is familiar and grounding, for the one doing it _and_ others around. Since androids are now so lifelike, if they _didn’t_ breathe, they would be more like a corpse than a person. Dr. Flanagan thought that you weren’t lifelike enough—which, to be fair, this was around a decade ago—and believed that a breathing imitation of life would unease customers. But we know that you aren’t an imitation, right, Connor?”

        He gave Connor an inscrutable look. Connor didn’t know how to respond. He felt very fragile and transparent, like a thin pane of glass, a barrier between two worlds. He felt like that a lot these days.

        “I also couldn’t bear not to. Breath is life. Christianity’s God breathed into Adam to give him vitality. Buddhism has the term _prana_ , describing breath as a vital life force from the element of air. Stanford has found that a group of nerves in mice’s brain has a direct connection to the arousal response to stimuli. Other researchers have found that deep, controlled breathing can lower human’s heart rate, slow their metabolism, and decrease their heightened fight or flight response in stressful situations. It would be…” his eyes glassed over, recalling something. “…Unreasonably cruel of me not to give this gift—this tool—to my own creations.”

        He gave a subtle shake of his head. “Please forgive me. I could wax on and on about the symbolism and importance of breath, but let’s just get down to it, shall we?”

        “I would like that, yes.”

        “So,” Mr. Kamski said, rubbing his hands together, “what we’re going to do is quite simple. As I’ve told you, we’re going to meditate, or more accurately, focus on our breathing and our bodies as we sit in a very controlled, very relaxed, safe environment. I’m adapting what I’ve learned from my time with a lovely group of Tibetan _bhikkhu_. They performed _anapanasati_ —which translates closely to ‘mindfulness of breathing’—many times a day.”

        The pretentiousness oozing off of Kamski, deliberate or not, was palpable. Connor wished he could zone out like Hank sometimes did when he was getting an earful from Captain Fowler. 

        A few minutes later, Mr. Kamski said, “I don’t want to bog you down with any more details. They’re not that important, in the grand scheme of our work here. I just want you to get comfortable, be aware of yourself and your surroundings, and breathe. Nothing will hurt you here, Connor, least of all me. As I said earlier, you can and should leave whenever you want, if you feel uncomfortable.”

        If anything, the man’s insistence on Connor’s safety made him even more leery. Mr. Kamski saw this and tried, “Why would I want to hurt you? You’re prime research material. And besides, I know that Lieutenant Anderson is rather fond of you and would certainly break something if he found so much as a scratch on you.”

        Connor quirked a smile at that.

        “I’ll give you a few minutes of silence before I guide you through a more structured meditation. Whenever you’re ready.”

        So with much more hesitation than he had with Hank, Connor did. He breathed.

        Silence. There was silence for a while.

        His audio processors began to pick up various noises. The sound of Mr. Kamski’s breathing in front of him came into focus easily, the closest sound to him. He heard the electric hum that permeated all of Mr. Kamski’s house, from his various appliances and machines. He heard his own breathing, air rushing through his internal wiring, the spaces in between the parts that made him Connor. Thirium flowed through him, seeping through the millimeters of his artificial epidermis, keeping his skin human-like, displaying all his fabricated freckles and moles.

        He could turn off his skin. He could sit with himself in his factory-issued form, naked and true. Like a cicada on an oak branch, shedding its amber exoskeleton and sitting next to what it once was, he could peel back his displayed skin and hold in his memories all his flesh colored tones, his brunet strands of hair, his carefully manicured fingernails. His ears involuntarily focused on the man beside him. Mr. Kamski would be a witness to the unsightly divinity that was his physical form, his body. The man knew what Connor looked like without his skin; he probably had blueprints of it on his desktop. He could _turn off his skin._

        Connor did not turn off his skin. His trust of Mr. Kamski was about as deep as a kiddie pool, at the moment.

        He tried to relax, but now that Connor had admitted to himself that he didn’t trust the man who once told him to shoot a woman in the very room next door, he simply couldn’t.

        Rising to his feet, Connor abruptly told the man, “I’m going to leave now,” and did so.

        He steadfastly ignored his surroundings as he walked across the open floor plan. He shut the door behind him, deliberated, then began walking, pinging a cab. He couldn’t stay here. The cab could pick him up away from Mr. Kamski’s house. A wave of emotion was rising inside him and he couldn’t be in that house with that man when it broke.

        That man, now alone in his library, frowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be more in-depth and successful descriptions of mindfulness in later chapters. as you read, this was kind of a failure.
> 
> if you like the story so far, let me know in a comment below! since this is a work in progress, any suggestions may go directly into future chapters, too. :)


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